When the warbling screech came a second time, the sand beast bolted. Strong as it was, the urge to hunt elves could not overcome the primal fear inspired by the sound of a natural enemy. Descending the hill in one great bound, the sand beast lowered its head, struck the Opposite hillside, and immediately began burrowing. It tore through slabs of slate as easily as a child digs in sand. Before the shadow of the griffon crossed the hill where the sand beast had been, it was completely buried, lying still as the rock around it.
The Lioness stopped, and her warriors followed suit. They could now see the griffon’s black shape moving in the sky. Kerian cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled again.
The griffon descended rapidly, flaring his wings and hovering over the elves. None of them could enjoy the sight; all were too busy trying to control their plunging horses. Kerian solved this dilemma for herself by vaulting from the saddle. Rising to her feet, she held up a hand to the griffon and called his name. Eagle Eye, utterly ignoring the chaos around him, landed next to her and lowered his hooked beak, tucking it under her arm like a pet songbird.
“You old monster,” she said fondly. “I’m glad to see you, too. Your timing is excellent!”
A shout interrupted the reunion. Favaronas, engaged in a losing battle with his terrified horse, yelled, “The nomads are getting close!”
Two hundred yards away, the main body of nomads was in plain view. Their advance from the south had been halted temporarily as they, too, had to cope with frightened mounts. From the east, a second force of nomads was likewise delayed. Kerian estimated some four hundred Khurs remained.
“Form up! Form up!” she called, even as she leapt onto the griffon’s back. She was airborne in the next heartbeat, Eagle Eye’s muscular hindquarters sending them into the air with a breath-snatching rush. Kerian turned his head toward the larger (and closer) southern nomad band, shouting at her elves, “Into the valley-at a gallop! There’s no time to waste!”
Her warriors sorted themselves into riding formation. Reins snapped and spurs dug in. They surged northward. On their right, the second party of Khurs was angling to cut them off. With the Lioness forced to concentrate first on the southern nomads, the eastern band was beginning to regain control of their horses.
Eagle Eye flew so low over the nomad horsemen that Kerian could have kicked their hats with her boot. Instead, she crouched low over her mount’s neck. It wouldn’t do to pick up an arrow from a sharp-eyed nomad archer. The griffon’s screeching cries sent the horses into a frenzy. Their riders seemed scarcely more composed. Tribesmen in Eagle Eye’s path flung themselves off their mounts.
Eagle Eye banked, flapped hard for altitude, and soared back over the hectic scene. Kerian aimed to rejoin her fleeing command. Her bird’s-eye perspective showed a dire situation.
The flanking nomads, riding hard from the east, had succeeded in getting in front of her elves. She growled in frustration; the trap she feared had caught them. Nomads were ahead and, however disordered, also behind them. Their only hope of survival was the Inath-Wakenti, where they would have room to maneuver-and hide.
She reached her diminished band and hovered high above them. “Draw swords, all!” she cried. Three hundred-odd blades rose in unison. “Forward! Don’t falter! If the humans get in your way, cut them down, but don’t stop to fight. Go!”
Boot to boot, the wedge of elves hit the nomads head-on. The elves, highly trained veterans on taller, heavier horses, pushed through the loose nomad formation, trading sword cuts as they went Bilath tried to hold his men as Adala had instructed, but the elves would not be denied. Bilath himself received a slash on the temple. A second cut might have finished him, but the elf warrior tore by without pause.
On the southern front, the Weya-Lu led by Bindas were coming up fast. Their desert ponies were a hardy lot, and the animals’ fear had faded as they grew accustomed to the griffon’s strange scent. Adala’s stolid donkey had never given in to the terror. On beholding the griffon, Adala proclaimed the strange flying beast a sign. Monsters from the Abyss had been raised against them, she told her rapt followers. The wicked laddad thought to cow them, but Torghan the Avenger would strengthen Weya-Lu sword-arms and steel their hearts. The Weya-Lu shouted, “Adala maita!” Then they thundered forward at a gallop.
Riding near the Weyadan, Wapah stared uncertainly at the griffon. He recognized it as a creature associated with the Silvanesti and didn’t quite understand how it could be both a sign from Those on High and a monster raised by the laddad for use against the people of the desert.
Shrugging, he decided this was just another example of what happened when a man strayed from the hard edges of the desert. Here, mountains pierced the sky, letting in confusion.
The griffon swooped in, hovering in front of the nomad band: Adala tugged Little Thorn’s reins, halting the donkey. Her warriors stopped as well.
“Begone, monster!” Adala shouted to the griffon. “Return to the wicked land of your ancestors!”
“That’s just what I plan to do!” said a voice from the creature’s back, and a javelin came flying at Adala.
The mother of the Weya-Lu held her place. The javelin struck the ground a few feet in front of Little Thorn’s hooves, burying its iron head six inches into the hard soil. The shaft vibrated with the force of the throw. The griffon wheeled and flew off into the night.
Etosh came riding back from the head of the nomad band.
“Weyadan, the laddad are entering the valley! We have failed!”
The anger Adala had felt on hearing the laddad voice subsided. Her face resumed its patient cast. “All is well, brother. They have gone into the sacred valley, but there they will perish.”
The tribe, she said, would camp here, blocking the only pass out of the valley. When the laddad tried to escape, they would be destroyed. She urged Little Thorn forward, grasped the javelin, and worked it free of the soil. Wapah came up beside her as she was studying the weapon.
“We should not stay here, Weyadan,” he said. “This land is not good. The hard edges are dulled. Unnatural things abide.”
“We must stay. Our land and our honor demand it.” She looked up at him, taller than she on his pony, and added, “I have seen a new vision of our path, cousin. It’s not enough to expel the foreigners from the valley. When the laddad here have been dealt with, we will raise the tribes, all the tribes of Khur, and lead them to Khuri-Khan. We will deal with the laddad there, too.”
She handed him the javelin, and turned her animal away. He touched the tip of the slender spear lightly; it was keen enough to make his thumb bleed. Had it hit the Weyadan, it easily would have pierced her back to front. Wrapping the sharp head in a length of protective cloth, Wapah lashed the javelin across the rear of his saddle. Nomads were never wasteful.
Six miles away, the Lioness brought Eagle Eye to ground far enough in front of her warriors that their horses wouldn’t go wild. They reined up. Elves and horses alike were panting for breath. Her officers and Favaronas joined her on foot next to the griffon.
“They didn’t follow us,” she said. “I think they’re afraid- of the valley or Eagle Eye, I’m not sure which.”
Favaronas said, “Lucky your creature found us. I thought the time for such wonders was past!”
Kerian, too, had been marveling at the griffon’s cleverness. With the rush of battle behind her she realized how odd it was that Eagle Eye had arrived fully saddled, with weapons of battle, like the javelin quiver, in place. She certainly hadn’t left him stabled that way.
The answer to the conundrum was tucked inside the javelin quiver. It was a folded parchment whose message convinced her that wonders were no match for the everyday power of love.
Thought you could use a friend, the note said. It was signed simply, “G.”
Chapter 8
Sa’ida, surrounded by chanting priestess-healers, stood by the bed of Prince Shobbat. She dipped a finger in the oil warming in a shallow copper pan and traced on his
forehead the seal of Elir-Sana.
The high priestess was red-eyed and haggard from her efforts. This was the culmination of three days of work, weaving a great healing spell around the delirious prince. Lesser potions and cantrips had not restored Shobbat’s shattered wits, nor healed his blindness, though his wild ravings had been soothed and he had stopped flailing uncontrollably. He was left lying rigid in his bed, eyes closed. Sa’ida had no choice but to perform the strongest, most arduous spell of healing known to her.
Acolytes and priestesses worked in shifts, new ones arriving at the palace every six hours to relieve their predecessors. The chant went on without a break for three days. Aromatics and incense were burned, and elaborate designs, in yellow paint, were drawn on the walls and floor of the prince’s bedchamber. The design created a great invisible funnel through which the goddess’s healing power could flow. Shobbat lay in the center of the vortex, a thick strip of leather between his clenched teeth to prevent them cracking under the strain.
The chanting priestesses came and went by a prescribed schedule, but Sa’ida didn’t budge. She alone was irreplaceable. For three days and nights she did not sleep. She had performed the great healing spell only once before, but none of the priestesses knew the circumstances; Sa’ida would never discuss it.
The chanting abruptly stopped.
“Shadows of sickness, leave this man!” she commanded solemnly. “Suffering one, be whole!”
For the space of three heartbeats no one moved. Time itself seemed to halt in the room. Then Shobbat sighed deeply, the sound echoing in the stillness. His rigid body went limp. His eyes opened. He blinked several times, looking around as though his surroundings were unfamiliar.
“Am I dead?” he rasped.
“Not yet.”
Sa’ida moved away, to send word to Sahim-Khan that his son was healed.
On the bed, Shobbat lifted a hand to his face. Was he truly here? Was he at home in Khuri-Khan? The fire was gone from his mind, but the memory of what he’d seen in the Oracle’s cave remained. Monsters-animals with the heads of humans and humans with the heads of animals-had come out of the shadows, and engulfed him. They’d called his name, said he was one of them. And suddenly he’d known it was true. His hands and feet changed to slender paws. Fur sprouted from his skin, and in his mouth he tasted carrion.
Jackal! the misshapen monsters had shouted at him. You are one of us!
Sahim-Khan entered. Clad in plain white geb, his dark head bare of crown, he looked like any worried father, attending the bedside of his sick child.
“My son,” he said quietly. “Do you know me?”
“You are my lord, Sahim, Khan of All the Khurs,” Shobbat murmured, a vast weariness dragging down his eyelids.
Sahim turned to Sa’ida, standing between two priestesses. It was obvious that she too was sorely spent.
“You have a father’s gratitude, holy lady,” he said. “Whatever price you name, I shall pay, gladly.”
Shobbat’s soft snores interrupted them, and Sahim-Khan held out a hand to the high priestess. She took his arm and accompanied him out the door that led to the prince’s private sitting room. In silent ranks the priestesses of Elir-Sana departed by a different exit.
The sitting room was lush, the scene of many a princely revel. Sahim escorted the high priestess to a large chair and insisted she sit. Faint with weariness, Sa’ida complied. The austere white silk of her ceremonial gown stood out starkly against the chair’s crimson, magenta, and gold wool brocade.
“Mighty Khan,” she began, then had to clear her throat to begin anew. She was desperately thirsty, but other things must come first. “Mighty One, I believe it was no mortal illness that afflicted your son.”
Sahim’s brows lowered in a fearsome glare. “Poison? A curse?”
“No, sire. The sickness was self-inflicted.” Sahim’s mouth opened, but Sa’ida continued without pause. “Some deed of Prince Shobbat’s provoked this bout of madness.”
His surprise abated, and he looked dubious. “Shobbat is no ascetic, that is certain, but I doubt he would commit a deed foul enough to drive himself mad!”
“Not a foul deed, an impious one.” The chair was deep and plush. Sa’ida forced herself to sit stiffly upright; the slightest relaxation of her vigilance, and she would lose her battle against the fatigue that encased her limbs like dense sand. The Khan had little use for gods Khurish or foreign, and he still looked unconvinced. She knew she must choose her words with great care.
“Prince Shobbat has looked upon things a mortal should not know,” she said slowly. “What those may have been”-she shrugged her shoulders-”I cannot say, Mighty Khan.”
Sahim waved these obscure matters aside, vowing to take up the matter with Shobbat when he was stronger. If his heir was dabbling in magic, Sahim soon would cure him of such foolish curiosity.
He returned to the issue of payment, begging the holy priestess to name her reward. His coffers were full of steel and gold, courtesy of his laddad tenants. Alone with his cronies Sahim liked to boast that he was the best-paid landlord in the world.
“We do not crave wealth in our temple, Great Khan. But there is a boon you can grant us.”
He grinned, opening his arms wide. “Tell me, beloved of the goddess.”
“Put an end to the violence against the elves.”
He blinked, taken aback. “How does the fate of the laddad concern you?”
She told him then of the Speaker’s interest in the Valley of the Blue Sands and of the Lioness’s mission to find out whether the fabled valley was habitable. When she finished, her voice was almost completely gone. She waited expectantly.
The Khan astonished her by bursting into laughter.
“The place where animals speak and stones grow like palm trees from the ground?” he sputtered, quoting the fables. “Excellent! Let them go there! It’s a fitting place for them!”
His loud merriment caused Sa’ida to wince with pain. A prodigious headache was building behind her eyes. Closing them, she murmured, “Grant me this favor, Mighty Khan. Guard the laddad while they tarry here. Dark forces gather around you, seeking to destroy them. Have no commerce with these.”
This time his laugh was sardonic. “The Knights you mean? Or the bull-men of the seas? Yes, all these ‘dark forces’ have sought me out. Each wishes to destroy the laddad for their own safety. I take their gifts if it pleases me.” His black eyes grew hard, and no longer was he the grateful father. Robed and crowned or not, it was the Khan of All the Khurs who stood looking down at the priestess now. “But I rule in Khur, not these others. Gilthas’s people can rely on my protection so long as it pleases me to guard them. Please concern yourself with your goddess, holy lady, and leave politics to me.”
Sa’ida got to her feet stiffly, bowed, and departed.
The Khan watched her go, then took the chair she’d just vacated. Sa’ida was a great asset to Khur, and he was not a man to squander assets, but her request troubled him. Beyond a certain grudging admiration for the Speaker’s tenacity, and an appreciation of elven style, Sahim cared little about the elves’ ultimate fate. He was no friend of Neraka, nor the minotaurs. He knew well that once the elves were removed, his neighbors’ appetites would quickly switch to Khur. For all its empty desert, Sahim’s land bordered many vital areas. A navy with access to its coast could dominate the Bay of Balifor. Hundreds of miles of desert made a formidable barrier against minotaurs trying to enter Neraka from the north, or against Knights thrusting south to the fertile lands of minotaur-held Silvanesti.
The Speaker of the Sun and Stars was a temporary asset, a fine cat’s-paw, distracting the troublesome Knights and holding the bull-men in check.
This Valley of the Blue Sands business worried him not at all. Yes, it would be easier to keep an eye on the elves if they were under the walls of Khuri-Khan, but if they chose to maroon themselves in a remote mountain valley, surrounded by the worst desert in the realm, then that would be perfectly
acceptable. If the laddad waxed fat in the new location, so much the better. Fat sheep sheared thick wool, as the nomad saying went. Perhaps in time Sahim could make the Speaker of the Sun and Stars a true vassal of Khur. Hadn’t he done that (for the most part) with the nomads? Elves couldn’t be any more proud and arrogant than desert tribesmen. Then it would be Neraka and the minotaurs who must tread lightly! All would regard the name of Sahim-Khan with fear!
Thoughts of his nomadic subjects were like grains of sand in Sahim’s cup of fine wine. Worthless fanatics, all of them! They’d been slipping into the city in larger numbers, conferring with the wretch Minok, and going out to harass and murder the laddad in the name of their brutal god. Or perhaps in the name of the Dark Order.
A servant appeared in the doorway to Prince Shobbat’s bedchamber. He bore a tray laden with rosewater, fine linen, and sweet wine.
“Go away; I didn’t summon you,” Sahim said testily.
“No, Mighty Khan. Please forgive the intrusion. I was summoned to wait upon Prince Shobbat, but he isn’t in his room. I thought perhaps-” The servant looked hopefully around the sitting room, empty but for the Khan.
Sahim shoved the lackey aside and entered the bedchamber. The hour was late, just past midnight, and the only candles burning were a trio on a stand by the bed-the empty bed. Shobbat’s wrinkled, sweat-stained robe trailed off it onto the floor. The servant spoke truly: The prince was neither here nor in the water closet attached to his room.
The Khan perched his fists on his hips. He’d thought the boy would sleep for a week. Where in Kargath’s name had he gone off to now?
* * * * *
The large man’s shoulders nearly scraped the walls of the narrow alley. His four companions were hardly less imposing, yet despite their bulk, all five moved quietly, their soft leather boots silent on the timeworn pavement. At the intersection of two lanes, the leader stopped. He probed the corner of the wall in front of him, searching for three tell-tale notches scored in the brick. Finding them, he turned right and moved on. The others followed.
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